Happy Valentine’s Day, babes. With this bitter weather, I am a woman wrapped in layers. When it comes to getting down and dirty, I whisper a seductive mantra.
As you peel down my pants and find—yet another pair of pants, you may be thinking my Garden of Eden is the perfect present. You are mistaken.
“Pry me open like a plastic clamshell.”
And as you pull down that pair of pants and find—again, one more pair of pants, you may think I’m a woman who enjoys investing in wrapping paper. Again, you are mistaken.
“Pry me open like a plastic clamshell.”
And as you pull down that pair of pants and find—a pair of fleece-lined leggings that require extensive yanking to roll down over my knees, revealing yet another pair of fleece-lined leggings, it will become clear.
“Pry me open like a plastic clamshell.”
I am not a present, nor am I an onion or an ogre. No, babe, I am a plastic clamshell, and I want you to pry me open with the passion and vigor you put into opening a toothbrush or a cheap electronic.
That’s right baby, happy Valentine’s Day. My gift to you is not my body entombed in layer after layer of impenetrable plastic, it’s the act of prying me open like a plastic clamshell.
